


Paint Your Sins

by Knownobound



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Hellhounds, M/M, Multi, Superwholock, superwholock AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knownobound/pseuds/Knownobound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock finds a notebook, Castiel saves an old friend and the Doctor tells a story.</p>
<p>After moving into a new flat, Sherlock finds a notebook with a mysterious owner. He calls upon the help of Sam and Dean Winchester to help track the owner down and, to answer some questions of his own. After being saved by Cass, the Doctor gives an account of the time he spent trying to save the artist, Vincent Van Gogh. The Winchester’s will realize that hunters (or the Men of Letters) should have been more international than they were.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Little Brown Notebook

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea that a friend thought of at four in the morning and he told me to write it, so here it is. Don't expect this to be amazing after the first chapter, I just had a lot of Post-Reichenbach feels and I apologize.

The new flat smells of mildew, a thin residue of cigarette tar covers the walls, giving the white wallpaper a brown shine. Boxes stacked on table tops, compressed against corners of the room. Windows bare, no curtains or blinds hung yet. The view over looked the bay, as well did the bed they now shared together. The bed being practically in the living room, pushed into a cubby on the wall opposite the windows. Sherlock thought the new flat to be dingy. But, after being cooped up in Baker Street for the last two months since his return, he was glad to get a fresh start. Sherlock turned away from the window, still wearing his coat and scarf John kept. He remembers arriving at Baker Street, relaxing in his chair next to the mantle, plucking the strings of his violin. Sherlock knew John would be upset, to say the least, when he returned. And he was right. John had not said a word to him since he arrived hours before. Only got up and left once he realized the Sherlock was real, that he was finally back. His violin was his distraction from John’s reaction. And that is what Sherlock was doing, distracting himself, when John walked into the living room with something draped over his arm. Sherlock new instantly it was his old coat. John walked over and gave Sherlock his coat and scarf like an offering. Of peace. Of mourning. Of closure. Just to do it out of spite, to show Sherlock how much pulling that stunt hurt him. He pulled his new returned items into his lap and studied them, anything to keep from looking at John’s eyes which were pooling with tears. The collar was stiff and rough as were the ends of the scarf, his own dried blood slightly rubbing off on his fingers. Sherlock thought of John alone in the flat, which hurt. He thought of John sitting in his no longer used bedroom, holding his soiled coat and crying, which hurt. Thinking of John hurt. It had for every second of the three years he was gone. Pulling himself back to present, Sherlock’s eyes skim over the items on the breakfast bar. Boxes from Speedy’s Sub Shop full of beakers, burners and jars. The skull that would sit on the mantel. That damn toaster Ms. Hudson gave them which John insisted on keeping. He took a few quick strides and stopped in front of the bar examining each item with care.

“John,” Sherlock numbly states, still staring distantly at the boxes contents. Sherlock looks up breaking his daze. “John. John!”

“What? What is it? I just went out to get the last box and I come down the hall and I hear you yelling ‘bout god knows what-” Sherlock cuts him off, reaching out towards him taking the box and putting it on the floor. He leads John back to the bar with the swiftness he gets when he has no patience to wait on others to even think.

“This box,” Sherlock gestures to the one filled with bottles of chemicals and powders. “How long has it been packed?” John pauses, taken back by Sherlock’s sudden interest in moving matters.

“Since you uh-” John’s body tenses as he moves his eyes off Sherlock. “Since you left,” he finishes, placing his gaze on him again.

“And you haven’t touched it? Haven’t added anything to it?” Sherlock questions.

“No. I packed it, put it in the hall closest and got it out when we loaded up the car. Sherlock why does it matter, it’s just a-”

“This is why it matters,” Sherlock says, holding up a notebook the size of his hand to John. “Is this yours?”

“No. Sherlock it is a bloody notebook what the hell are you getting worked up about?”

“The dust John,” he says in the way he does when trying to explain something that seems so obvious to him. Like he was talking to a toddler. “These beakers are covered in dust, layers of it. Feel this notebook, not a speck on it.” John takes the notebook from him running his fingers over the cover. The brown leather worn and soft under the pads of his fingertips, the closure around it, made of the same soft leather, was frayed at the end. He flips the book open to the middle, its pages warped and discolored over time, each covered in elegant handwritten notes. Some pages with illustrations to accompany the entries.

“Sherlock, have you ever heard of a Medusa Cascade?”

“That’s astronomy John. It’s pointless to know anything about it.”

“I was just wondering because it mentions it in here,” John pauses. “Along with something called a Dalek and Cybermen. What nonsense is this?”

Sherlock’s head pops up when he hears this. “I have to make a call,” Sherlock utters as he takes the journal from John and heads out of the flat. Sherlock is at the top of the stairs when John finally catches up with him.

“Where are you going? We just moved here today, Sherlock. Cardiff is our new start. I don’t want you running out whenever you want. You’re supposed to be dead, Sherlock. I can’t risk one of Moriarty’s men seeing you, losing you all over again. I can’t risk it,” John pleads. Sherlock looks down the stairs and back to John, remembering his first day back at the flat. He leans toward John, keeping his voice low.

“I need you to get my laptop. It’s in the front seat of the car,” he passes John and heads back to the flat.  
John quickly returns with Sherlock’s laptop in tow. Once the computer is in his hands, Sherlock opens it and starts searching his contacts. “John may I use your email? I’ve yet to make another.”

“Yeah sure, let me type it-” Sherlock dismisses his offer with a wave of his hand.

“No need,” Sherlock replies and types in John’s email and password for him. “You really should change this more often,” he says as he smiles up at John. John sighs a reply and pulls up a chair next to Sherlock.

“Sherlock, who are you emailing? Everyone thinks you’re, well, dead.”

“Some friends, in America. Well, clients, I guess. They were on your blog about 50 times so, I tracked their IP address and emailed them.”

“Why? Loads of people get on my blog more than 50 times.”

“Yes but not 50 times within 37 hours. Anyway, I’ve helped them evade prison on a few accounts. So they owe me in a way.”

“Wha- Why are you emailing criminals using my account? Bloody hell this is the incident with the cabbie all over again. Do you remember that Sherlock? Because I do. That one time my flat mate made me call a murderer. Yeah, great times.”

“Yes, John. I remember, no need to be resentful. You’re not the one who almost died.”

“Almost di- Sherlock I saved your bloody arse last time I checked!” Sherlock raises his left index finger to his lips, silencing John. He tilts his head forward and begins typing his email. John lets out an exhausted sigh. “Okay. Whatever. Can I at least know what these people were almost imprisoned for?”

“Grave robbery, grave desecration, breaking and entering, burglary, impersonating a federal officer, murder,” Sherlock says with the same distracted monotone voice he gets when working.

“Wha- Bloody hell,” John sighs and runs a hand across his face. “What do they have to do with the notebook?”

“Well I think I know who it belongs too. And these gentlemen can help,” with this Sherlock presses send on the email and grabs the journal. “I’ll need you to mail this, express shipping. The owner should pick it up there. Here’s the address,” he says as he hands John the notebook and a slip of paper.

“I guess I shouldn't start questioning you and your motives now, huh?” John asks clearing his throat. He stands and pats the notebook against his palm. “I guess I’ll go drop this off then. Would you like anything while I’m out? Dinner, maybe?” Sherlock looks up from the computer and studies the other man. His hair is slightly gray around the temples, he no longer holds himself with the stiffness of a solider, he wears the face of a man who lost everything. Now Sherlock is forced to watch him slowly piece back together the life he once had. The life he shattered the moment he stepped off that roof. Sherlock knew John would change when he left, he did not think it would hurt this much to see it, though.

“Some dinner would be lovely,” Sherlock says as he reconnects his gaze with John. He stands and places a slender hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Thank you for this,” he murmurs as he places a soft kiss against John’s temple. John smiles and he grabs his coat off the chair.

“You’re welcome. I’ll be back in a bit, okay?” he replies and heads for the door, closing it with a soft click.  
\--

 

The sky was dark above him. The water on the road, from the light rain that had started, stuck lightly to the tires of the cars that pass. John walked back from the post office, hands shoved deep into his pockets, head slightly lowered. Blend in, act natural, be calm, stay alert. The same routine he went through every day for the last three years. If you act pissed off and mournful, people leave you alone. Truth be told, he was pissed off and mournful most days, every day, actually. John decides on a restaurant that reminds him of the first restaurant Sherlock and he went to. They had not ordered anything; they just sat and chased a wrong lead. He pays with cash once the to-go order is ready and heads back to the new flat. The light rain had stopped but the ground was still slick. He pulls out his phone, selects the email icon and crosses the street as it updates.  
 _Sent_  
 _*Click*_  
 _Last updated: 1 hour_  
 _*Click*_  
 _Subject: Notebook_  
 _*Click*_  
 _The email fills John’s screen._  


_Found notebook. Will send today. Think will be of use._   
_\- SH._   


John thumbs down the page to the address it was sent to. The name only reads Sam. He is not able to see the actual email address on mobile. _The great Sherlock Holmes,_ John thinks, _there is always a mystery to him._


	2. The Angel

The kitchen fills with the aroma of fresh coffee brewing, the scent drifting to the far marble walls of what Sam and Dean now call the library. The lights bolted to the wall shine softly as they reflect off the white stone. Sam rests his hip against the counter, still wearing his plaid pajama bottoms and tight gray t-shirt, his hair puffed up and astray. He looks up at the clock mounted on the far wall. _7:13. I could get a morning run in before Dean even thinks about crawling out of bed_ , Sam thinks. He pulls a coffee mug from the cabinet and scoops some sugar in. _After this cup of coffee though_. He pours himself a full mug and takes a sip. _Maybe two_ , he rethinks. Sam sits down in his chair at the dining room table and opens his laptop. _Wouldn’t hurt to check up on the news, see if there’s a case._ He opens the browser, his email already up from his last session. _Inbox (1)_ , it reads. Probably some pictures from Charlie at her latest convention.  
 _From: john.watson.mail.co.uk_  
 _Subject: Notebook_  
 _Received: Yesterday 2:37 PM_  
Sam’s eyebrows knit together as he reads the unknown address. He clicks on the email and reads.  


_Found notebook. Will send today. Think will be of use._

  


_\- SH._   


_SH? Who the hell is-_ Sam groans at his own realization. _This ought to be great._ Sam decides to opt out of the run and decides on a shower instead.  


\--

“So the psychopath, who got us off the hook for murder, needs our help?” Dean questions angrily.  
“Apparently,” Sam sighs.  
“So where the hell are we even supposed to pick up this notebook? More importantly what are we supposed to do with it once it gets here?” Dean kicks back in his chair, propping his feet up on the table and cracks open another beer.  
“I don’t know, Dean. He won’t reply to my emails and we have no other way to contact him. I guess we just wait until we get the book,” Sam tiredly runs a hand though his hair as he continues to stare at his computer screen.  
“And where would that be?”  
“Well, the last time he helped us out, we used that PO Box in Lawrence. That’s the last address he has on us. So probably there. But, we never paid the bill after that blew over, so it’s not ours anymore. I mean we could give them a call; maybe they’d hold it there for us until we can pick it up.”  
“You do that, but I’m not going for the ride,” Dean says as he takes another swig of beer.  
“Why’s that?”  
“I’ve got stuff to do, Sammy!”  
Sam scoffs, “Like what?”  
“Like sit on my ass and enjoy the break. Not chase my tail around for some psyco in Ireland!”  
“Uh, actually he lives in England,” Sam replies.  
“Does it look like I give a damn?”

\--

The door to the bunker closes with a loud clank and Sam flips the latch closed. His footfalls echo off the brick walls. “Dean!” Sam calls as he places a small box on the table. He shrugs off his jacket, hangs it on the back of the chair and sits down with thud, hanging his head back. “Dean!” he calls again, with no reply. Again. Sam leans up and rests his elbows on the table. He picks up the package and tears open the box, dumping out the contents. A brown leather notebook topples out, landing face down. _I spent a week, waiting for this thing?_ Sam grabs it, and is just about to pull the closure open when Dean walks in. Well, _slides_ in. Sam looks up at his older brother, whose back is turned to him, slightly horrified. Dean is holding a beer in his left hand, wearing high white socks, boxers and a light gray button down.  
“Okay Tom Cruis,” Sam laughs.  
“Holy shi-“ Dean gasp as his turns around, sloshing beer on the floor. “Why didn’t you say you were home?”  
“I did. Twice,” Sam replies, trying to hide his smirk.  
“Oh. Okay then. Uh, is that the, uh,” Dean trails off, getting slightly uncomfortable.  
“The notebook, yeah. I haven’t read it yet but, it looks old,” Sam says taking his eyes off Dean to look back at the notebook. They both sit in silence for a moment.  
“Will you please go-“  
“Yeah I’m gonna go put some pants on,” Dean says hurriedly, rushing off to his room.  
A few minutes later Dean returns, pants on and a crimson t-shirt under the button down. “So,” he says “what is it we’re wasting our time on?”  
“Looks like a lunatic’s journal. It’s crazier than some of the stuff written in Dad’s. I mean, look at this,” Sam leans across the table, showing the page to Dean “the rift is closed. Rose is locked in the other universe. I lost her. We won the war but I lost the one thing that counted. Her.”  
“So we found a diary? Awesome,” Dean says, drinking from his beer, loosing interest in the ‘job’ Sherlock sent. “Have you tried emailing our own crazy? Tell him we got the notebook?”  
“Yeah, I did. I’m still waiting for a reply. It’s like 10 at night over there,” Sam reasons.  
“Right. Well awesome. Know what? I’m gonna go lay in bed, maybe take a nap. Come get me if the thing starts glowing or anything, alright?”  
Sam makes a noise of agreement and Dean heads back to his room. Over the next few hours Sam tries to make sense of the notebook but does not come far. Even though he has read it from cover to cover once and is halfway through with the second time. _It’s like a scrapbook, diary, itinerary and owner’s manual all in one_ , Sam thinks. _This is pointless_. He gets up and walks to the fridge to grab a beer. A fluttering noise causes him to turn; Cass is standing in the doorway. “Oh, hey Cass. Need something?” he questions as he pops the cap off of his beer and throws it away in the trash.  
“No. I just wanted to see how you both were doing here.”  
“Uh, we’re good. Not really doing much, I mean. Dean’s sleeping, I’m going through this old notebook a friend sent us,” Sam says, gesturing to the closed journal on the table.  
“Where did you get that?”  
“Uh, a friend sent it to us. Sherlock Holmes, lives in the UK.”  
“Do you know where he got it?”  
“No,” Sam shakes his head “He won’t reply to my emails.”  
“It’s radiating with Time Energy,” Cass says, carefully touching the leather cover.  
“Time Energy? Like Cronus?” Sam asks, trying to decipher Cass.  
“No, like a Time Lord,” Cass states, finally realizing Sam’s confusion. “They’re an alien species, or were. This is the last Time Lord’s notebook, why do you have it?”  
“I don’t know Cass! Ask him yourself!” Cass looks up from the notebook and back to Sam.  
“I’ll be back,” Cass states and vanishes, before Sam can even try to stop him. Sam sighs and walks through the bunker to get Dean. Dean lies on his back, arms stretched upwards, holding a book over his face. Sam lightly knocks on the open door to get his attention.  
“The notebook belongs to an alien. Time Lord actually,” Sam says, eyebrows raised. Dean scoffs.  
“So we have ET’s journal. Awesome,” he says, closing the book and rolling out of bed.  
“Pretty much. I think Cass knows who it belongs to. He dropped in, said ‘Time Lord alien journal’ and left. So, he’s probably going to go get him right now,” Sam explains, leaning against the doorframe.  
“Great,” Dean groans “let’s get this over with.” He follows Sam out of the room and back to the main area. “So it didn’t start glowing, huh?” Dean asks as they stand over the table, examining the journal. Sam tiredly rolls his eyes in a response.  
“Oh! A library! I love books!” Sam and Dean jump at the sound of the other voice. Castiel is standing next to another man, his hand on his shoulder. The new man wears a brown suit jacket with a lighter dress shirt underneath, his dark trousers and boots dusty. He looks at Sam and Dean happily and in awe. He notices Dean’s shirt and grins. “Love the color!” he says pointing from Dean’s shirt to his own red bowtie.


End file.
